


Divided in Diversely Colored Factions

by JenovaVII



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bisexuality, Blood, Bonding, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Gore, Humor, Hunters, M/M, Post-Season 2, Romance, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Snippets, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Wolfsbane, cousin Miguel, orange & blue shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenovaVII/pseuds/JenovaVII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: five times Stiles and Derek kind-of-not-kiss before they start going steady, and one time they actually get to kissing and they're still not boyfriends, per se. But they'll get there. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divided in Diversely Colored Factions

**I. thursday night (of the full moon)'s fever**

Stiles has come down with a 'perfect temperature for temples-egg-frying, check!' kind of fever. Derek, always the un-friendly neighbour vigilante that he is, pops into the room utterly uninvited and checks Stiles' temperature by slamming their foreheads together. Stiles winces because while Derek isn't a gentle person by nature, the reason he's a brute of such caliber is purely by option. And it really fucking hurts, because the dude's not able to be anything else but be an asshole; it's in his genes. Hale genes. Genes Derek shares (shared? Used to share?) with a charmingly psychopatic former Alpha.

The action causes their noses to brush, the angles and rules of Mathematics and Physics conspiring to lead the two of them keep on breaching holes, huge Black Holes, on the border of their (practically non-existent from the Private-Property-Trespassing Day onwards) bubbles of personal space. Derek's nose curves at an almost perfect 60º angle and Stiles is most definitely not at fault for his born-with pixie slope. Which it's just fine by Stiles, it's juuusst fine. It's not like this sad, disgraceful, health-compromising incident hadn't been a couple centimeters from happening every time Derek deemed fit to grab his collar and push him against the nearest vertical surface or anything.

"I heard your father telling you to take your meds. You still haven't, you don't smell like it. Take them, now, Stiles, do it, or I'll shove them down your throat myself."

Bastard. Stiles whines, shifts on the bed. His head is killing him already, he has no need for a pain in his ass as well and please, please let the Big Bad Wolf flee this train already.

There's some clunking near the window. "Oh, and Stiles?" Derek calls back. "Next time you bail out on a meeting without letting any of us know? You'll have more important, life-endangering things to worry about other than a meager human sickness."

There's a pause and Stiles knows what it's for: it's to annoy him, to make Derek look scary or whatever; intimidating. Well, it's not. The red eyes must be flashing at him, too. Then Derek husks out the oh-so-predictable " _Me_."

...Ookaaay, maybe that's just a little bit of an attention-keeper at best. _Maybe_.

**II. swapping dna trough a tunnel of plastic**

Drinking water from the same bottle. Drinking water from the same bottle as Derek. Stiles can do it, no problemo. He'd done waaayy more disgusting crap with Scott times and times again and no, it's nothing to be proud off, nothing to spread word about. But this, _this_ is a whole other level. 'Cause Derek's not Scott. Derek isn't Stiles' best friend. Stiles hasn't known Derek since he was a squirt. He's been aware of Derek's existence for roughly two years now and still _barely_ _knows_ the guy.

Stiles does know about Derek's family, about the pain of loss, about the supernatural side of the world, about Derek's strength and changing eye-color and constant struggling with that now dead, later ressurected crazy fuck uncle of his. Stiles knows Derek's height, barely superior to his own; knows Derek's weight above and underwater; knows what runs inside his veins, knows the way his facial and abdominal muscles strain and contract in pain. He also knows Derek may be a born werewolf but he's new at being the leader of his own Pack and he's dumb at it, too. Knows Derek needs help, needs people to support him, people whom he can trust by his side. Knows that Derek will sooner threaten to rip throats out rather than swallow his pride and ask for help; that Derek will manipulate and find excuses for others to keep him alive for their own gain rather than believe they don't actually want him to die—rather than put a little trust in them.

Stiles... Stiles knows all that, all of that and more; that he hated Derek when he first met him, hated him for a while after that, but along the way the hate had vanished, to where or into what Stiles has no clue. Nor has he any clue if it was ever hate and not something else, something similar, something entirely different in the first place. Stiles wants to be one of those few, rare, unique people that gain the privilege of being let in; wants to prove Derek that he's not alone, that it's okay to rely on others for once and that they won't stab him in the back on the first chance they get. Wants to teach Derek that one lying, traitorous human wave doesn't become a tsunami made of the whole human race. Wants to teach Derek to trust again, on someone.

Stiles wants Derek to be able to trust _him_.

Because Stiles does. He actually does trust Derek, and it would feel pretty damn good to be trusted back. Stiles wants to have this one assurance that, when it comes the day he's running _n_ minutes late because the Jeep is giving him trouble, or his dad isn't getting out of his ass fast enough, Derek isn't already accepting and receptive of his tragic faith and eminent death. That Derek's actually smirking at his captors instead and _knows_ that Stiles will get his skinny ass in gear, find out where Derek is being held at and will bust him out of there, one way or the other.

Stiles still thinks he's tripping on something and it must be the strong stuff because they have actually made it out of there, alive, the two of them, covered in coal and rice powder (yeah, _rice powder_ ) and rock detritus and what else he doesn't know and doesn't care. The Jeep had, indeed, failed him in the middle of the road, forcing him to jog the rest of the path into the woods to the Hale house. He'd elbowed the window of the Camaro (hadn't even thought of wasting time in getting the copy of the car key from the top drawer in Derek's room on the first floor—what? _What_? _The whole Pack_ knows about that, _okay_?) and snapped at the wires until the engine got started.

And now Stiles is draining the 2L water bottle he'd shoved inside his backpack (Summer season's a thing of the Devil King) and then passing it over to Derek who absent-mindedly touches their fingers together during the trade and gulps the remaining half of the liquid down with quick, big pulls, his Adam's apple working like an elevator on crack. When he's done he just—there are no other words for it— _crushes and disfigures_ the empty container _for life_ , throwing it out of the remnants of broken window soon after.

Stiles clears his throat then, remembers what he's done. "Sorry about that," he says, not really caring all that much. Being the Sheriff's kid doesn't stop a delinquent vein from taking roots, on the contrary, but he's a well-educated boy, he'll take responsibility for wrecking the damn glass to impede the death of his frien— _whoa_ , his _what_ , where did _that_ come from?! Derek's, _Derek's_ death. Yeah. Stiles will totally be paying for the replacement, no complaints.

"Don't be stupid," is what Derek tells Stiles after he's expressed his sentiments on the window-replacing topic and slaps Stiles in the head for good measure. Stiles sneaks a look at him and catches the way the tight line of Derek's mouth relaxes and takes it as the sign of gratitude that it is. Stiles' goal isn't so unattainable as it initially posed as, it seems. Gotta work hard, regardless, Stiles thinks and smiles. He opens the window on his side and palms the wind between his fingers as Derek puts on speed and changes gears like a maniac.

**III. sore thumb, bloody lip**

Stiles lip is burst open at one corner, cut from a Hunter's knife. Tetanus. That thing had been rusty for sure. The man was a pig—a walking, red-neck pig—and his knife was dark and full of terrors and rust and had never been wiped after beheading innocent passerby mystical creatures, Stiles was... _not_ certain, but. (And lets just let the common "rust-therefore-Tetanus" misconception slide, 'kay, let a guy have his panic attack in peace, _God_.)

Blood keeps pooling no matter how many times he licks it, how many times he swats over it with the back of his hand, no matter how much pressure he applies as he tampers it with his sleeve. He hears Derek sigh and come _on_ , it's so not Stiles' fault, okay? And really? Is Derek really that nitty-picky that even this small a thing gets on his so-called nerves of steel? Stiles isn't even _opening his mouth and talking_ for Christ's sake!

Then Derek's closing in, thumbing the blood away and making Stiles hiss at the stab and burn and couldn't he not be such an ass for once and be nice—at least _nicer,_ if not nice _nice_ —if he's even giving himself the trouble? _Jesus_. And then he... Stiles swallows and his jaw goes a little slack, and then Derek's tongue is, uh, _sampling his blood_ and the look on his face is like... like he's processing a blood culture in his werewolfy brain and trying to figure out Stiles' blood type and sugar levels and all that jazz. His thumb's back on Stiles the next instant, coated now with shiny saliva and probing, brushing without the usual amount of violence.

When Derek pulls back and turns away, still silent through it all, he gets his bloody thumb in his mouth and when Stiles next sees it out it's licked clean. Stiles feels utterly numb, from head to toe, and it's right then and there that he knows, without a shadow of doubt, that he's fucking done for.

Derek? _For real_?! Well fuck his life.

**IV. bane of my existence, be more animalesque, will you**

Some things are simply too hard, too difficult to define. And that's not even because the things themselves try to be like that; they just are. Stiles muses, he muses that his Derek-centered thoughts enter that dimension, enter to never come back out. Yes, Stiles does tend to over-analyze his surroundings and its habitants beyond limits but this time it's different, this time... it just—is. Again. He's starting to sound kinda philosophic. _Ugh_.

Stiles also thinks he shouldn't be letting his mind go nutty while he's performing such a decisive, not-really-intrusive-like surgery-thing where he's sucking the hell out of the wound on Derek's middle and spitting the wolfsbane out like a venomous snake, before diving back in. His palms are sweaty and pressing Derek into the cement. He can hear Derek clawing at it, the sound digging into his ears with visceral aggression, similar to the dry slide of Derek's fangs, the round of teeth atop rasping against the other one below. He's already called Scott to hurry the hell up with the antidote from Deaton's; Stiles' back-up flask had fallen and splintered way behind them as they ran from the group of Hunters on-foot. Stiles' Suck 'n Spit method would have to do until then, help slow the spreading. This _will_ have to do, please, let this do, Stiles keeps on muttering, possibly out-loud as it seems Derek—hurt and groaning and dying Derek—is murmuring between muted yells, telling Stiles he's doing well or that, at the very least, he's not doing so bad.

And it's too much.

 _Stiles_ should be the one cheering Derek on and enumerating to him all the pros of life and cons of death and babble and flail non-stop. Irritate him to a pile just so Derek would stay with him, conscious. It shouldn't be like this. Stiles sucks, he fucking sucks. "I suck." He says so with black goo dripping down his chin (he's proud of himself, has come a long way from worrying about it being contagious and stuff) and Derek whispers, "Yeah, you do, you do it well though, so keep doing it, don't stop the sucking." And is that a twitch, is that supposed to be a freaking sincere attempt at smiling—if sardonically, a 'totally making fun of you, Stiles, you idiot' smile—were Derek not in _agonizing pain_?

Stiles chuckles, can't help chuckling, and doesn't let up on the vampiric suction until he can listen to the hum of Allison's car eating up the distance and then the sudden screech.

Thank. Fucking. God.

**V. pack picnic on the weekends, bring the marshmallows**

A shape-shifter had taken a look at the map and said, Hey, Beacon Hills, sounds like a nice place to hunt for fresh meat, and that had been that. Probably.

After an attack on a convenience store three blocks from the school the pack held a meeting and thought of a plan. The following night had shown to be of no luck, and the next much of the same. But the moon had descended one again and brought with her the third night, whereupon the werewolves had sniffed the thing out and jumped it, plan be damned (plan? What plan?). Erica'd had her fun torturing it with her dog-teeth and high-heels, because she's a bitch and glorious, and Jackson had wanted to kill it for this one sole reason: it'd wrecked the whole stock of car magazines he'd been waiting for for a month which was, according to El Jackass' logic, as unforgivable an act as keying his Porsche. (Um. Stiles probably should re-think things more before doing them from now on— _naaahh_.)

In the end they'd kicked the beastie's shape-shifting, still-living ass out of town. It hadn't killed anyone, had only knocked the shop's owner and customers present at the time out with its breath that acted as some kind of sleeping gas; getting a sample of it got Deaton all pumped up, so there's that. And the Pack certainly isn't behind getting rid of evil creatures once and for all, the bloody way if needed, but they're also not a bunch of psycho murderers with no neurons. (Aside from Isaac, Isaac's definitely a psycho, though he _is_ eerily adorable.)

At some point in the course of the 'not following the plan is actually the plan' battle, Stiles had earned a tiny medal of war: a scratch, just below his ear. He was pretty sure it was at silver level, if nothing else. He'd done a mean job of tying the little—well, not so little—bugger up, thanks to Sheriff Eadgar Stilinski, who'd made sure his boy got his knots' skills at their peak, ready to rise for the occasion.

Derek doesn't think it's tiny at all, however, not the medal but the scratch—which is actually the same thing but _you_ try telling Mr. I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt that and see what happens—and proceeds to manhandle Stiles (oh, please do, yeah, no need to ask if you may _move_ _ **my**_ _body around to_ _ **your**_ _liking_!). He laps at Stiles' neck, a slick stripe of spit all through the line of red blood cells and plasma and remaining blood components and opened flesh and whoa, wow even, that scratch is totally much bigger than Stiles had thought it was when he'd felt it around. Stiles is about to open his mouth to say maybe, Thanks, dude, for using your awesome tongue to awesomely close my awesome wound. And he'd do it, will do it as soon as his heart stops hammering at his rib-cage, pumping blood to places located opposite to his brain.

Stiles feels the ghost of lips barely there, at his jaw, and then he's seated behind the wheel on his Jeep, hand-grip bruising at two and ten o'clock and closing the door to his room and falling asleep still not knowing how he's gonna get out of this thing that is truly starting to become a problem.

**+. opposites attract, colors included**

It had so totally not been on purpose.

It'd been the first shirt that had come to hand and Stiles had slipped it over his head without looking and then the bell was ringing and he was leading Danny up the stairs to his room and damn it, he should have known. He should have known by the look on Danny's face as he first saw Stiles at the door, and then by the look on Derek's face when they got to the room. (Of course the creep had to had jumped inside through the window, it's his _M.O_. of choice; either that or werewolves do actually have that thing, that thing about being invited first before being allowed through the actual doors, instead of fictional vampires. Still, the most likely is that it's just Derek being his awfully bitchy self.)

The thing was Stiles knew then, knows now, and the "Uh-oh," has already slipped past his lips before he's looking down at himself just to have one of his worst fears—#1 worst fear at the present time—confirmed.

Yup, orange and blue, yup, totally _Miguel's_ shirt, yup, totally not washed nor ironed after Derek's impromptu-coarsed-pimped-angry stripping session, yup Derek's dog-wolf-person essence must be all over the poor piece of fabric. Danny's giving Stiles the unsubtle (though not accusing) and no doubt entertained 'interesting, do tell me more about this incestuous affair you have going' eye from the computer chair. And Derek the stink-eye and nose-flare from the bed, custom thousand-pound dictionary on his lap.

This isn't looking so good for Stiles. He bites his upper lip, pulls it in, attempts to look cool by leaning his backside against the desk and ends up swirling like a very manly, very spastic ballerina, tripping on his own sneakers and falling face-down on the bed. Right. By. Derek's. Knee. He's too ashamed to look either of them in the eye and starts talking like that, into the bed. "Sho, Danny," he says, intervention-style. "Dish is acsh'ally Dere. K."

"No Miguel?" Danny asks around a smile, asks when he already knows so much better without knowing even the half of it.

"Nop," says Stiles to the pillow that came from nowhere, somewhere.

"Your cousin Derek, then?"

"Yesh, _nnooo_ , jus' Derek, no coushin."

"I see," is the only thing Danny adds before probably sending a look of pity Derek's way meaning, I don't know how you do it, how you put up with him, but you must be an really nice guy—despite your grumpy, albeit Greek God-like, appearance. I know _I_ am. And closing the door after he's left. Stiles tilts his head, pries open one eye, sees Danny has intercepted the signal they need and left the software running smoothly, bless his soul.

And then it's "Stiles." And again, " _Stiles_ ," when he doesn't answer, and at last "Stiles!" and no, not even a microsecond to duck from Derek's grip on his throat. Next he knows Derek is straddling his lower back, pinning him still, belly facing the mattress. "Heeyy, Derek, buddy, watcha doin'?"

Derek can see through his false light-hearted snicker with no need to recur to his more accurate senses. "You're an idiot," Stiles is told, Derek's voice too close for comfort.

"Um," Stiles says and gets a hand underneath the striped shirt for his trouble, smooth-skinned fingers burning hot into his skin.

"Had you done it on purpose it wouldn't have affected me this much. You're so smart, too smart for your own health, and then there are these times when your thought-process reminds me of a slug."

"Whoa, so rude, and so many words at once directed at me without a 'Shut up _,_  Stiles' or a death threat, and again, _rude_ , and—oh my _God_ , that slug business, does it include the slimy part?!"

Derek sighs. Stiles feels him resting his head on his shoulder. "That's what got your attention? Of course it was," Derek concedes with something that's starting to sound warmer than just-getting-used-to-Stiles' stilinskiness and overall behavior.

What Stiles is completely defenseless for is the "Your moles piss me off," that comes a second later. That one, it... it makes a crack.

"...What?" Stiles turns and sits on his ass. Derek makes no move to stop him nor does he put any more distance between them than necessary for Stiles' movements.

"Makes me want to count them. It's distracting." Stoic-faced son of a—and now it's Stiles who's pissed because, _really_? His moles piss Derek off? _His moles_ are distracting to Derek? Well, right back at him! Except the moles. Derek doesn't have moles. That Stiles knows off. And Stiles has seen pretty much around 55% of bare-skinned Derek.

"Well, _you_ piss me off too, and _you_ are very much a very distracting person so there. It's a draw," Stiles snaps and enough is enough, the game's been fun and all but the tension has to go down at some point before it just... suddenly explodes on them. Explosions are bad. Bad bad, not good bad.

Derek gives him that electric grin minus the sun-glasses and meets him half-way, bites him first, shallow. Licks the seam of his lips next, delves his tongue in before Stiles has time to bark an "Ouch!" and makes Stiles jump right to moaning softly. Only Stiles could be expressing appreciation and displeasure at the same time, kissing Derek back enthusiastically and yapping at him for being a slow-poke and a tease and a sour, sour, not sweet at all son of a wolf and then finally shuting up with a final "Now that is smells like me, and you, and me and you together, will you please wear this shirt again, in front of your whole pack—fucking _OWW_!"

 _That_ did win Stiles a harder bite (and he's lucky it feels like blunt, small, human teeth) and also a not-so-human growl from above.

He pulls at Derek's black leather jacket until it slumps to the floor. Oh you're _on._


End file.
